


The Gifts

by Stargzer



Category: Lancer (TV)
Genre: Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13070706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargzer/pseuds/Stargzer
Summary: A Modern/AU Christmas story.





	The Gifts

A kitchen without the clangs and thuds of cooking utensils or crockery, without family around the big brown slab of table, was its own particular brand of lonely. Yet give it echoing voices, both male and female, lights turned high and air filled with a spicy scent of gingerbread, the possibilities were endless.

Murdoch Lancer felt the deep shadows of the kitchen thrown out by the meager light over the stove, and beat them back with his own good mood. At five AM it was truly dark, yet he enjoyed the early hour, the intense quietness of the hacienda, the time to gather his thoughts into one neat tidy bundle. A vibrancy pulsed from him, even in his repose by the counter. Excitement brought a flush. He believed in family, and at this time of year—especially at this time of year—when he had finally gotten his family back, there would be time.

But with Christmas Eve tomorrow, there was much still to do, so he set his coffee cup down on the counter and picked up his jacket.

The house seemed to shift and whisper, breaking the silence as he made his way to the back door. "Tradition," he murmured to stucco walls. It would start this year.

L-L-L

Teresa sat on the side of her bed, already dressed for the day but unwilling to move. A tremor raced through her, swift and sharp. She had a sense that something momentous was about to happen, something meant only for her to see. She clenched her fist and the piece of paper crumpled. It was just an address. She didn't know why but ever since her seventeenth birthday she had an urge to find out more about her mother. There'd been love between her father and mother, and unhappiness and all the other things that a whirlwind marriage may bring. Her eyes blurred for a moment as she remembered Dad—her knight in shining armor, white horse and all. When he'd died she was convinced she couldn't survive, but she had, largely through Murdoch. He'd been a father to her, guardian and friend. He had made her laugh again and he had taught her to dream.

She dreamed now. Of her mother.

The paper in her hand teased with secrets. She stared at the bedroom door, feeling the strength of the house seep into her bones. Determined, she got to her feet and stepped into the hallway.

L-L-L

When Johnny jogged to the back porch leading into the kitchen, he'd sweated out most of the consequences of several shots of tequila from the night before. He had to give Murdoch credit, the old man knew how to throw a holiday fandango for the staff. He'd spent a very satisfying sixty minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the heavy bag suspended from the ceiling in the barn and burning away most of the morning-after headache.

Feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and breakfast. He heard music, loud and throaty, wailing from the radio. With a grin, he knew Teresa was up. These little things caught him unawares sometimes—a lot of times, actually. At one point in his life, he knew there would be no more Christmases. Less than a year ago he and his partner were kneeling in the dirt, praying Garza and his men would ultimately miss with their machine guns. Then a head spin later, he was in California on another God-forsaken dirt road only to be picked up by a wary man in used-to-be white Lotus. The old car was a piece of shit, the man wasn't. Other thoughts intruded.

While Johnny wasn't normally a church-going man, he did attend the lighting of the luminarias and mass on Christmas day when he could manage, it was a small enough gesture, a token nod to his mother after all these years. Mamma had been a liar, a virtuoso at lying, it was said. But she was still his mother, and hand in hand with that thought came a yearning to go back to where she spent her last few years.

His grin wavered and dipping his hands into his pockets, he wandered to the kitchen, right into the dueling scents of tomato and jalapenos.

L-L-L

Scott stopped at the entryway to the Great Room. Even after growing up in a house adorned with possessions, he was amazed. He'd never seen so things crammed into one space before. An old clipper ship sailed on the table behind the couch, its mast sagging with age. The rest of the usual items had been shoved into drawers and pushed onto the bookshelves to make room for the season. Knickknacks and painted globes, a wooden sleigh filled with pine cones. Three ceramic snowmen smiled at him from under their top hats. The tree was by the window and even in his muzzy state from last night's party, he could appreciate the branches laden with colorful balls and glass ornaments. The fandango, as Johnny called it, rivaled the more sedate ones in Boston thrown by his grandfather. More than lavish, those affairs were often thrown for show, the networking they provided. In comparison, the one last night had been more of a barn dance—boisterous and populated. But oh so much fun. A sweat-inducing thought occurred to him—had he really tried to dance a flamenco? As his tongue chased around teeth searching for cotton, he looked about the room.

It should have been crowded, messy. But somehow it was neither and he felt as though he had stepped through a magic portal. Much like his arrival at Lancer. He shook his head at the thought of driving past the broken down motorcycle and its dust-covered rider less than a year ago, only to find out said driver was, in fact, his brother. Magic, indeed. Less magical when he questioned Harlan about the whole business later. Scott had refused to be budged from the subject and Harlan had ignored him, using a combination of guile, guilt and tenacity to wheedle him into eventually dropping the matter. Despite this and because he knew about the worried man under the facade, he felt a tug to go east, strong enough to check on flights to Boston.

L-L-L

Scott walked into the kitchen, stopping to admire the festive green and red beribboned jars on the towel. Less festive was Maria's countenance from the stove. If he had to guess, he'd go with frosty. As in Boston in-the-middle-of-February frosty. She finished stirring what was in the large pot and put a lid on the bubbling mass before leaving with a thinly disguised 'hmph' in his direction.

Johnny started to laugh. Even Teresa had a hand over her mouth trying to stifle the chuckles.

"What did I do?"

Teresa managed to choke out her words. "You danced with her niece last night."

"So? I recall you danced with her, too, Johnny."

"Yeah, but apparently I wasn't up to her standards."

Teresa nodded, merriment dancing in her eyes. "You're all she talked about last night and Maria is getting tired of it."

Scott leaned against the counter. "She's nine!"

"Almost thirteen, and you made a real impression on her."

His eyebrows shot up. "Look, I didn't…"

Teresa waved her hand at him. "It's okay. I've known M-2 since she was born"

His temples pounded out a cadence worthy of any high school marching band. "M-2?"

"Mm-hm. Maria Montoya. M-2 or Maria the second. Our Maria being the first. But listen, she's also in love with Chris Martin from Coldplay and Mike at the feed store." Teresa's eyebrows waggled. "I think she has a type."

She took a sip of her tea. "It doesn't mean anything, she'll fall for the next blond guy she sees. Maria the First knows that, too. She's just making sure you know she knows." Teresa looked up, entirely too cheerful. "And now you know."

Scott blinked. He really didn't know anything except for the fact he needed caffeine. Badly. He took a mug from the cupboard and poured. The first taste was sheer bliss. He managed to make his way to the table where Johnny shoved a bowl of congealed eggs at him. He shoved them back.

"Where's Murdoch?"

"He must've left early, the Suburban's gone," said Johnny.

Teresa looked up. "We're still going into town, right?"

He smiled, the first one of the day and reached for the dry toast. "Well, we have to pick up Murdoch's present."

Johnny cleared his throat. "How are we gettin' to town?"

"That is the question, isn't it?"

"We're not takin' your car, unless Teresa wants to sit in the trunk." Johnny put down his cup. "Does that old heap even have a trunk?"

"My wheels are…vintage. And at least it  _is_ a car."

"Vintage?" His brother strangled on the word through his laughter.

"We can take Jelly."

He and Johnny turned to look at Teresa. "No." It was said almost in harmony.

Jelly was the most cantankerous piece of automotive mistake that ever came off an assembly line. Among other things, it shimmied from side to side when it reached its limited cruising speed, hence the ignominious name. But they had come to learn Murdoch had a certain fondness for the rust bucket and kept it around for sentimental reasons.

Teresa sat back in her chair and toyed with her cup. "Well then, I can take Jelly and pick up Murdoch's present while you two wait for him to come back home."

"No!" There was that synchronization again.

"I have my license."

Scott let out a sigh. "Murdoch said it was a provisional one and you have to drive with someone who has a California license. That lets me out. Johnny?"

Surprisingly, Johnny shook his head. It was hard to tell if he was bluffing.

"So I guess you're stuck with us for the day." He shuddered. "Driving Jelly."

"Only I'm drivin'." Scott watched Johnny get up to swing the truck keys off the hook by the back door. "I'll warm it up. Fingers crossed the son-of-a-b…gun will start."

Scott nodded to the back of his brother's departing head. After Teresa left to get her things, he was alone.

He gave up the now-cold coffee and toast to stand by the window, whispering a plea for a few rays of sunshine, but instead was met with what Murdoch termed 'typical' for this time of year before Christmas: cool, gray and wet from the fog. In Boston he would have been met with cracking cold, snow and bright sunshine. It seemed a cruel joke not to have at least the sun here in California. Christmas hadn't been his holiday for a number of years, but this December—amidst family after all—he felt an odd sense of displacement, more so than usual.

 

Chapter 2

Johnny sat in the old truck, tapping one finger on the steering wheel. He watched the fog glide away from the hacienda, almost like a wave receding in the ocean. Going into town had as much appeal as inviting the wet, possibly rabid, family of squirrels he found last week in for the holidays. He understood Scrooge, wanting to go to bed and wake up on December 26th. No shopping. No tree with lights. He wasn't in the mood to make memories when so many of them pressed against him already.

Maybe it was the gift for Murdoch that ignited his bad mood. The three of them had all agreed they should get the old man something special. He had in mind to throw a little money into the pot and maybe Scott would take care of it. But big brother had other things brewing. Like Johnny calling in a favor and getting a photographer friend to take the picture. He could have done it himself, but the last time he'd seen his Canon Garza had taken a rifle to it. That had been the least of his worries then.

He sighed, shoving the key into the ignition. "C'mon, boy, just start already." He cranked the engine until it fired up, and with only one backfire Jelly settled down to what could only be described as a purr.

Johnny grinned. "You faker." He patted the cracked dashboard. "Do you die on Scott intentionally?"

He was still grinning when Scott and Teresa made their way from the hacienda. She held a basket of Maria's salsa jars, the ribbons just peeking out over the rim.

His brother opened Jelly's door for her and she slid across to the middle seat. He poked his head in, eyebrows drawn together like an earnest spaniel. "There's something wrong."

Johnny looked at the dash, nothing except the 'check engine' light but that had been shining red since they got to Lancer a few months ago. "I don't see anything. What is it?"

Scott clambered in and slammed the door home. "It's running."

He managed to not roll his eyes—just.

On the way to Morro Coyo, a driver hardly old enough to have a license laid on his horn and swept around them. Johnny mouthed a few words to the boy who responded with a flash of his middle finger. Until he got a good look inside the truck. Then tucked his head and gunned the car around them.

"You know that kid?"

"No one special." A blush stained her cheeks. "Music. That's what we need." She turned on the radio.

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…" Nat King Cole's voice filled the air.

"Not helping," Scott said and switched the channel. He switched it twice more.

"Wait!" Teresa turned up the volume. "This is Murdoch's favorite holiday song."

He swore Scott flinched when Michael Bublé crooned about being home for Christmas.

L-L-L

It was early afternoon by the time Murdoch returned to the hacienda. He'd gone to see the newest additions to the campagneros y palominos. The mares had taken their late September foals to the farthest pasture available. He didn't mind the hike and he couldn't blame the mothers, wanting their privacy.

It was cooler now than the morning. He looked up at the iron grey sky. Perhaps some snow might fall this year, beating out the fog. It had been a long while since they had a bit of the white stuff.

He shook off the cool and went inside. The house was silent, but like the mares, he coveted a bit of quiet. He stepped into the great room.

The tree, a real one, featured ornaments he didn't even know were packed away. It was all Teresa's doing. In honor of the season she had exclaimed, but he thought it was more in honor of Scott and Johnny.

He tapped a blue papier-mâché circle that looked like it was dipped in white crystals. Curious, he turned it around and found the number one painted on its side. Startled, he remembered Catherine had made the ornament their first Christmas together. And what a Christmas it was—a dinner of ham sandwiches and pickles on a floor covered by a white tarp because they'd been painting.

Looking further in the boughs, he found a bejeweled cross, in red and green. Maria's. Given to her by an aunt if Murdoch wasn't mistaken, the year after Johnny was born. He grinned when he turned it over. His youngest had left tiny bite marks on one end.

Nativity pieces were arranged on the coffee table. They were crudely done by his hand, over twenty years ago. At least the infant Jesus was nestled in the manger, surrounded by the other familiar figures. And if a palomino (or two), with colors faded and darkened with age were standing beside the three wise men, who would complain?

He shoved off from the tree, and was about to throw his hat in the chair when he noticed Scott's laptop. He bent over to move it and a piece of paper fell to the floor. A timetable for flights to Boston.

And hadn't he overheard Johnny in the hallway, speaking on the phone about driving south? They at least had a history of sorts, albeit violated by Maria's lies.

He felt his enthusiasm for the season suddenly wane. He abandoned the computer for the chair behind his desk and dropped into it. The tree and all its glory couldn't silence the voice inside his head that rang out with guilt. He leaned his elbows on the desk, willing the accusations to stop. He had thought once Johnny and Scott got to Lancer that he and his sons could make anew. But how could they when they never had anything in the first place?

He set aside his worries, and all thoughts of Christmas, to tackle a long-standing water project. For a few hours, he wasn't a widower, or a father. He would gratefully surrender those roles if only for a little while.

L-L-L

Johnny maneuvered through town, weaving past Christmas decorations dangling from lampposts in the shopping plaza. By the time he reached the small specialty store, last night was catching up with him. He glanced across the seat to Scott. With knees bumping up against the dashboard, his brother's head was planted against the window catching forty winks. Johnny was starting to rue his decision to drive.

He came to a hard stop and Scott's head bobbed up in confusion.

"We're here. Let's get this thing over."

Teresa frowned at his words and took out a jar. "Maria gives these every year, it's her special recipe. Can you make sure they get to the right people? The names and addresses are on the ribbons."

Scott took the basket. "We can, but where are you going?"

"I'm going to pick up the plaque for Murdoch's gift."

"Why don't you wait and we'll all go together." Scott looked at Johnny and he nodded.

"Oh, I'll pick it up. It's just down the street, besides…" she fidgeted with her phone, "I might need to do some extra shopping."

"Maybe it's not a good idea to walk by yourself."

Teresa looked up, mouth open. "This isn't Boston, Scott. Why I probably know almost everyone in Morro Coyo. I'll be fine. Maybe a couple of hours? I'll text you when I'm done."

Johnny groaned while Scott muttered something under his breath. They watched her walk off, taking the last jar of salsa for Mr. Baldomero down the way.

"What'd you say, Scott?"

" _Almost_  is what I'm worried about."

"Give us a call, Teresa," Johnny yelled after her. And he wondered exactly where that had come from.

Scott stared at him. "Do you even have your phone today?"

Leaving things had become a bad habit. He patted his back pocket.  _Shit._

L-L-L

Teresa walked down the long sidewalk. It was getting cooler with the breeze and she wished she had picked up her warmer coat before they left for town. After she'd given Mr. Baldomero his present from Maria, Matias showed up. He was tall and reedy, with black hair and soft brown eyes. His rough-around-the edges family lived across town, on a property strewn with old tires used as flower planters. They'd fostered a special connection through a surprising topic: death. His mother was gone, the same as hers. Only now, things had fallen into place that made her question what she'd been told.

"Hey, Matias," Teresa said coming to a stop. She tucked her chin into her hoodie.

"Hey, Teresa."

"So we saw you on the road earlier. Were you driving you brother's car?"

"Yeah." He pantomimed taking a drink. "He doesn't even know it's gone."

"Scott and Johnny saw you, too. They weren't very happy."

He dropped his eyes. "Sorry about that, I didn't see the Lancer L on the side of the truck door until I came around. But I guess I shoulda recognized that old junker of Murdoch's."

"It's okay," she told him, but was looking across the street at the coffee shop.

Matias waved his fingers at her. "Hello, I'm over here. Where you going?"

"Huh? Oh, just to get a coffee." She started to walk across the street. "Didn't get much sleep last night, you know? See you later!"

"Wait!"

She ignored Matias' plea and groaned. She didn't used to be like this. She would hear herself and even she found herself annoying. But her emotions were so hard to control some days. She was almost seventeen. That was part of it. Her mother was the other part.

She hated to lie to them—that thought was uppermost in her mind. But Scott and Johnny would've never let her go alone. She headed straight to the Dreamy Bean. The coffee shop was the one area of town where you could hold a conversation, but still populated enough in case she ran into trouble. She didn't mean to run into trouble.

It was odd how the address came to her, though. Stuffed in an envelope that smelled faintly of cigarettes.

"Miss?"

She was a thin woman, someone who reminded Teresa of the street contortionist she'd seen with Murdoch in San Francisco a couple of years ago. This woman was older, in her forties, maybe. Her hair was a dyed brown and her skin had a yellowish tinge to it, like Maria's uncle had before he died.

"My name is Teresa O'Brien," she said pointedly. And you are?"

The woman reeked of smoke. She cocked her head to the side, looking for all intents and purposes like a robin eyeballing a fat juicy worm. "Rita Tyrell, may I sit down?"

Nerves jangling, Teresa tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, not taking her eyes off the woman. "You're the one who sent me the letter."

"I'm the one." She folded her hands on the table and it gave Teresa time to study her, the pale skin, the arched brows. Her eyes, though, were a vivid green.

"What do you want?"

The woman sat back, as if to assure her. "Now I've gone and scared you, haven't I? I'm sorry. I sure didn't mean to do that. But I had no idea how to approach you."

She found herself smiling.

"I have a bad heart, you see. I take my pills and it doesn't get any worse. No better, either. My kids make sure I get the care I need. But when I found this picture, and looked you up on the computer, I knew I had to talk to you."

Rita took a photo out of her bag. It showed a slim dark-haired woman who was holding a toddler.

Teresa felt light-headed. She had precious few photos of her mother. She couldn't even remember her voice. This felt a little like a part of her coming back.

Rita nodded. "Oh, the stories I could tell you about Angel Day!"

 

Chapter 3

The fact they had to wait for Murdoch's gift only meant that he and Johnny had time to deliver the salsa. Scott grinned, he was enjoying the look on Johnny's face from Jelly's front seat as the elderly Mrs. Hargis harangued his brother about something. It might have been the church because she held the salsa jar in one hand and was pointing at the live nativity scene with the other. He dipped his head under the sun visor and saw a donkey and two sheep milling about. A goat was sandwiched between the empty manger and a sheet of plywood, which prevented the lot from escaping.

He shook his head.

Scott wasn't too sure what coming to California was supposed to feel like, but if this was it, then he could see why people bothered. Maybe he should sit back and enjoy this one minute, enjoy the whole thing.

It had been a hard few years since Afghanistan, and all the hurts blurred into one, except for what had happened in Kabul, when everything had just stopped in blood and pain and betrayal. His separation from the Army had been a clean break, albeit forced, but some of the wounds were still healing. Grandfather was fine, Scott knew it, and that wasn't really what this was about. Finally, after all was said, after all was done, he was doing this for himself.

He made a choice in Boston, and it was right.

But from what he could see, his father didn't need much of anything. Or his brother.

Not like he needed them.

The smile faded a little from Scott's face, as though it had been whipped away by the wind. It struck something inside, those words, and he had a moment of dislocation so strong he pulled himself out of the truck, afraid for a second that he'd fall out somehow. Steadying himself with one hand on Jelly's side mirror, he leaned against the door.

"You okay?"

He hadn't heard his brother approach. "Just enjoying the California sun."

Johnny looked up at the clouds for a moment then stared at him. "You sure you're okay? There's no sun."

He tapped his brother on the arm. "I'm fine. Better than the Widow Hargis, I'm assuming. What did she want anyway? I saw her pointing towards the church."

Johnny pushed his hand through his hair. "Yeah, that old bat. She said someone should fix up the nativity scene for the church and did I know of any able bodied men who could do it."

"So subtle."

"Like a heart attack."

"Shall we then? That last jar is for Father Jimenez, right?"

"I guess. Did Teresa call yet?"

Scott checked his phone, did a quick text. He promptly got a ding back. "Apparently, she's still busy."

Johnny let out a sigh. "I guess we got work to do then. C'mon, we'll leave old Jelly here."

L-L-L

The nativity scene was rougher than Johnny thought. After the jar was delivered to the smiling priest, he practically beamed when Scott told him they were there to do repairs.

He nudged a curious sheep away from his knee and handed Scott a hammer.

"Think you can handle that, Scott?'

"After spending these past months chez Lancer and its myriad of fences, I'm up to the task." He raised his eyebrows at the saw in Johnny's hands. "You?"

"I'm good for it." He kicked the end sawhorse around and laid down the plywood for the railing. "You ever see fences before you came out here?"

Scott rocked back on his heels. Heels that were scuffed and broken-in. Johnny could only assume his brother had never worn cowboy boots before. "Just the wrought iron kind and then I didn't have to put them up, or fix them." Scott pinned him with a stare. "What are you getting at?"

"I know you've been checkin' on flights back east."

"So? You've done your share of talking on the phone, in convenient Spanish, I might add." Scott blinked when he saw his frown. "It was a guess, right? One you've just confirmed. Are you leaving?"

"For the holidays, or forever?" Johnny chuckled, but it held no mirth. "I was about to ask you the same thing, brother."

Scott took a moment to hammer in a nail. The thwack looked like it sent shock waves up his arm and into his shoulder. "I'll admit to thinking about it."

"Same. Ever think of workin' on a ranch? You know. Horses and cattle drives and all that?" Johnny asked as he was sizing up the piece of lumber on his sawhorses.

"Not since I was ten and had an idea I would go visit my father all the way in California." The thud on the wood was louder this time. A point of contention had been breached. Thankfully, the sheep had migrated to a far corner.

"It's tough tryin' to figure out someone you never really knew."

Scott straightened. "Welcome to the club. And I would guess the pull of the road could be pretty hard to ignore."

"Yeah, there is that."

"Only, Johnny, I don't think Murdoch is going anywhere. And there's the little matter of being a ranch owner. Ah, a third owner. You've already shed blood for the place."

"You had your plan and I had mine."

Scott smiled—the same one he wore after Murdoch asked them if they wanted a drink that first day. Johnny had come to learn it was his brother's  _fuck you_  smile, and it pulled up the right side of his face. He often wondered what it would take for Scott to actually say the words, not just wear them.

The clouds eased up and a few rays of sunlight shone down. He believed in luck, not providence. The door was open, and he could go right through, the same as always. He wanted to believe that Murdoch held open a door bigger and better than the one he was used to, that it might be okay to just walk through that one instead.

"I've been thinkin'."

Scott made a noise in the base of his throat.

Johnny ignored him. "I've been thinking that I'll stick it out. For a little while longer."

Scott took a deep breath and Johnny had to brace himself, wondering about air fares to Boston and a motorcycle trip south to the gravestone of a young-old mother named Maria, and how they all got tangled up and intertwined.

His brother tipped his head to squint at the skimpy yellow rays. "Me too."

He gave a cautious grin, which Scott returned.

The work claimed the rest of the conversation, tension leaching into the straw-covered ground of the nativity. It was too close to Christmas for any regrets and Johnny felt too tired for it in any case.

L-L-L

Teresa looked at the photo she held in her hands.

"You can't deny the resemblance," Rita said, looking at her over crossed fingers propped up under her chin. She hadn't taken her eyes off Teresa, watching her every expression.

Yes, the woman in the photo had long dark hair and eyes like her. She conceded that Rita seemed to know a lot about her mom. But why wait until now to make contact and give her a photo?

"Miss O'Brien—may I call you Teresa?" At her nod, Rita continued, "Angel was a pistol in her heyday."

"She died. A long time ago," Teresa said gently as she could, thinking Rita was hoping to find her.

"I read about it in the newspaper, at least what they thought happened. And that's why I'm here. What would you say if I told you where you could find your mama?"

Her phone pinged, but she turned it off. Teresa wanted to stand, but she couldn't seem to move out of her chair. The air around her turned electric. "My mom is alive?"

"I can get you in touch with her."

It felt like she was falling, but there was no place to land. "How? When?"

Rita smiled wide. "How about now, little lady? Only I left my phone in the car. Come out with me and I'll get her on the horn."

She slid back in her chair close to tears. She was losing it. But it was her  _mom_. She got up to follow Rita, clutching her phone.

Murdoch had always told her to be aware of her surroundings, so she looked around but nothing was out of the ordinary except for a heavy set man standing beside a car, looking at her with a smile.

Rita made her way to him.

"Teresa, I'd like to introduce to you my boy, Eric. He helped me make the long drive to see you today."

Eric inclined his head, smiled wider and held out his hand. "How do, Miss."

She shook his hand but he kept holding on to her. In a minute, his left hand had grabbed her elbow.

The placid charm gave way to violent anger when Teresa tried to pull away. His demeanor changed in an instant and he yanked at her arm, loudly tearing her sleeve and making her cry out in surprise and pain.

Terrified, she looked up and saw Eric smile at her again.

 

Chapter 4

Scott pushed Murdoch's box toward Johnny. "No one stopped in to pick it up?" he asked the clerk a second time. It was difficult to keep the incredulity from his voice.

After doing a head count of the animals to make sure none escaped and scoring a few snickerdoodles from Father Jimenez's kitchen, they had finally picked up the present and walked to the engraving store—hoping to find Teresa there.

"Text her again," Johnny said when they exited the store.

"I have, she's not answering."

"Are you thinkin' what I'm thinking?"

"We look for her."

They reached the corner where Teresa had turned off when Johnny bumped into a boy coming from the other direction. His hair had grown out from a shorter cut and he didn't look uncared for as much as determined. Oddly familiar in a way.

"Hey, you're the kid from the car that almost ran us off the road," Johnny said.

The boy grimaced and swept a hand through his hair sending it straight up in brown tufts. A  _sorry_ was stammered out under Johnny's dark stare.

"Yeah, well, you could learn to drive a little slower." Even Scott knew it was the pot calling the kettle.

The boy raised one eyebrow, telling them that driving safety was the last thing on his mind.

"What's your name?" Scott asked.

"Matias."

"We're looking for Teresa. Have you seen her today?"

One minute a kid, the next suspicious and guarded. Scott watched him struggle with the decision.

"Yeah, I saw her earlier." Something in his round brown eyes shifted to…Scott didn't know what it was, not exactly, but the confidence, the smooth charm, of this kid fled. "She okay?"

"We're trying to find her. Where did you see her last?"

"Down by the coffee shop, a couple of hours ago." He swallowed. "I knew something was up."

Johnny grabbed Matias' shoulder. "What do you mean by that?"

"Teresa doesn't drink coffee. Only tea, you know? But she said she was gonna get some coffee which was weird because she already looked nervous about something."

They left Matias standing on the corner and took off at a dead run for the coffee shop.

Teresa was in the parking lot, trying to claw her way free from a man's grip on her arm.

Barreling through a few customers, Scott shoved the man across the pavement, sending an older thin woman sprawling on the concrete.

He caught the man with his fist and sent him flying backwards, blood spilling from his mouth. Scott grabbed him by his shirt. The man squirmed, breathing hard, his face wheyish and sweating.

"Don't you fucking move." Scott flattened him against the car, coming within an inch of his face. He kept his voice low as people ran up, drawn by the commotion.

One look at Teresa's pale face and a scrambled fear clutched Scott's heart.

Johnny wrapped his arms around her waist when she struggled to remain upright. He shook her a little, forcing her to look at him, but all Scott saw was primal desperation.

"You all right? Are you all right?" He shook her again. "Teresa." He lowered his voice. "It's okay now."

Wailing sirens rang down the street.

L-L-L

Teresa heard footsteps coming for her and there was Johnny, out of breath and worried. Time sped backward and she felt her mother's arms around her, dragging her out of the corral, letting the snorting horse dance away to the far end. Johnny was pulling her away but she fought him as hard as she could, and she heard him talking, just the way she'd heard her mother so long ago.

His words finally penetrated. She blinked at Johnny, horror-stricken, then buried her face into the crook of his shoulder.

It was a blur after that with the police asking questions, the Tyrell's getting taken into custody. And all the time Scott and Johnny stood on either side of her. Finally released, they walked back to the truck together. Matias jogged up to meet them, a crumpled package in his hand.

He stared at her for a long while. If she yelled boo! He would probably jump a mile.

"You okay?"

She ducked her head. "I am now."

Matias handed Johnny the package. "After you dropped it running across the street, a Chevy clipped it. He didn't even stop to see what he hit." He looked at her, eyes crinkled in concern. "What happened? Did that guy try…?"

Teresa turned to go, not able to stand the way he looked at her, as if she was made of glass.

"Wait," he called as she walked away.

But she didn't. She kept walking hands fisted at her sides. Scott and Johnny caught up to her.

"Teresa, wait," Matias said as he galloped awkwardly after her.

"What?" She whirled around.

He wasn't expecting her anger. Frankly, neither was she. What was she doing? They both looked a little startled.

"I can take you home."

"No thank you. My family is going to take me home."

Matias pressed his lips together and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Scott shoot him a look of sympathy, as they walked the rest of the way to the truck.

She was feeling tender, beat up, that was all. She didn't say anything on the road out of Morro Coyo, until she saw Scott's hand. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't think about it." He looked at the knuckles and smiled. "It will be good as new in a couple of days."

Johnny blew out a breath. "That's more than I can say for the old man's present."

Somehow she felt responsible for that, too.

Scott continued, "He'll understand. It was for a good cause after all."

Teresa stared at the folded letter, tracing its sharp crease with her short fingernail.

"People are funny about the past," said Scott, getting a tissue out of the glovebox and handing it to her. "Especially after something painful."

His tone remained even, his focus didn't falter, yet within his words Teresa felt the heat of an unasked question.

"They can be," Johnny agreed.

They couldn't possibly know about Rita Tyrell, and the letter that had brought the whole awful business to Lancer. The truck shimmied around a curve, and for a split second she considered telling them why she'd gone against all right thinking to meet a stranger. About missing her mom so much she ached.

But it would be stupid. They'd want to talk things over and there'd be no forgetting the whole thing then, and so, instead, she said, "We might have a skiff of snow this year."

She thought she heard Scott sigh, and was beset by a sudden sliver of awareness that he never even knew his mother.

"Do you remember her at all?" asked Johnny. Not accusing, not interfering. Just asking.

"I have one memory of her," she went on quickly, aware her voice was becoming squeaky, but unable to rein it in.

"One day I decided to pet Dancer. She was a beautiful palomino my dad had gotten, but skittish. I remember him saying that finding a new rock in the pasture would set her off. Anyway, I got into the corral just far enough to reach out to her when she reared. My mom came flying around the corner and dragged me out." She tried to shrug away the threatening tears. "My mom said it was gonna be okay. And it was."

The cab of the truck became quiet. Too quiet. "Thank you both for taking care of me," Teresa said, finding her voice.

Scott cleared his throat. "Just, if there's a next time, let us know. Okay? Like you said, family."

"Yeah, we can send Scott in to kick some more ass."

"I may have gotten caught up in the moment."

"Any more moments and Tyrell would've been talking out his ear instead of his mouth."

She knew it was nerves, but what Johnny said made her laugh outright. She stopped suddenly. "Oh. Murdoch."

"All done," Scott said. "I called him while the police were talking to you and gave him the particulars. I told him we'd be late."

Despite the truck heater being on full blast, she shivered in her seat.

The ride to Lancer was over too soon. As they neared the garage, the lights of the portico flipped on. The big wooden door swung open and Murdoch stood in the entrance.

L-L-L

Murdoch had hoped this day would never come, but yet here it was and he dreaded it. Now he had to face facts. Teresa needed to know what exactly happened to her mother. Paul telling her she had died suddenly and in a tragic way was true, and those words had stuck in Teresa's mind. With Paul gone, it was up to him to explain exactly what her father meant when he used those words.

"Am I in trouble?" Teresa asked when he knocked at her bedroom door.

"We need to have a talk," Murdoch said. He took the photo and letter from his back pocket and gave it to her.

"I found these on the floor, by the door."

Teresa turned red, then white when she saw the items. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks like two silvery rivers. "I'm sorry," she said in a whisper.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry."

She looked at him waiting for an explanation. "If I had told you the truth a long time ago, you wouldn't have been influenced by this letter. It's my fault. You know I would never hurt you in any way, right, honey?"

Teresa's head bobbed up and down, sending her bedraggled ponytail swishing from side to side.

"I've always wanted what was best for you, and maybe after your father died, I was too strict sometimes." He held up his hand. "A lot of times, eh?"

He sat beside her on the bed. "You were so young when your mother left. She was a good woman, and she loved you very much, there's no doubt of that, but she fell into a depression after giving birth that Paul couldn't help her with. Your father wanted her to get therapy, but she wouldn't go." Murdoch paused, unsure if his words were coming out as they should, but he went on.

"What?" Teresa's eyes had doubled in size.

"She met Rita Tyrell at the height of her depression and she supplied Angel with medication—drugs—to help her feel better. Unbeknownst to your father, she became addicted. She left Lancer for Los Angeles."

"She didn't want me. And you and dad just pretended she died so you wouldn't hurt my feelings?" Teresa asked, her voice high-pitched. Worried.

"No. Not at all." Murdoch took a deep breath. "I'd like to think she had every intention to come back; Paul thought that, too."

A heavy silence hung in the air.

"But she…ah, she took her own life."

"Oh my God! Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were too young to understand the how's and why's at the time. Your dad and I…I don't know. I suppose we were trying to protect you. Time passed and then this." He held up the picture and letter.

"Rita Tyrell started to contact me a few months before the boys arrived. Threatening, saying she would make it public how your mother died if I didn't pay." He swept a hand over his eyes to wipe away the unexpected blurriness. "I never dreamed she would go after you, honey. And for that I'm eternally sorry."

Murdoch sighed and held her close until her arm crept around him and squeezed. He reached into his pocket and drew out a tissue-paper wrapped small bundle. "You were wearing this the day she left."

It was a pendant, heart-shaped and lined with small garnets and turquoise stones, on a thin gold chain. "Angel gave it to you, as a remembrance. See? The red stones are for her birthday in January, the turquoise for yours in December.

"Your father had it stashed away with his things, I had a hard time finding it."

"Is that what the noise was in the attic?"

"Guilty. I had forgotten it over the years. We'll need to get a new chain if you want to wear it, this one was made for a toddler."

She held it up to the bedroom light, where the stones caught the light and twinkled as merrily as any Christmas bulb. "I think it's perfect the way it is, Murdoch."

"She loved you, Bug."

She gasped at Paul's old nickname for her and new tears coursed down. Without warning, she threw her arms around Murdoch's neck.

"Thank-you," she whispered.

He fiddled with the letter and photo while she dried her eyes.

"Is that my mom…and me?"

He nodded and handed it to her. "I'm sure Tyrell found it among your mother's things afterward. It was the only thing Angel took, other than the clothes she was wore."

He held the letter aloft. "What do you want to do with this?"

She visibly shivered. "I don't want it."

"Burn it in the fireplace?"

"Uh-huh. I think that would be the best place for it. But let me, okay?"

"You got it." Murdoch looked at her bedside clock. It was a few minutes past midnight. "Well, look at that, it's Christmas Eve. What did I tell you last year without your dad?"

"Even though he's gone, we'll keep him alive in our thoughts."

"And that goes for your mother, too. Christmas can be magical, if you let it, Bug."

He realized with a start that he had to let Scott and Johnny leave, as much as he wanted them to stay. Tradition had a funny way of confining young people. They were adults with relationships and responsibilities all their own. Deep inside, where the father was, he yearned to be part of their lives—but he knew he hadn't earned the privilege.

Beside him, Teresa yawned widely.

He squeezed her shoulder. "Try and get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning."

He waited until her lamp went off before he crept down the hallway. There was still work to do.

 

Chapter 5

Murdoch found Johnny in the hallway outside his room, a cold beer in one hand.

“She settled in, Murdoch?”

“I think she’ll be all right, thanks to you and Scott.”

Johnny scrubbed his free hand through his hair. “Scott had Tyrell up against that car so fast the man’s head was spinnin’. Remind me not to get in front of his right fist again.”

“Again?”

Johnny grinned. “That’s a story for a different time.”

He fell in step and walked with his son. In the darkened room, he tripped over something and Johnny caught his arm.

“Whoa, easy there.” When the light came on, he saw a pair of Johnny’s boots splayed out on the floor. His son wore a sheepish grin. “Picking up things was never my style.”

His _almost_ pratfall lightened Johnny’s mood for a moment, but Murdoch knew the well of his son ran pretty damn deep. It seemed that the approach of Christmas was like a battering ram to Johnny. The glitter, the lights, the decorations—each pounding at his protective walls.  

“Are you okay?”

Seconds crept by while Johnny tipped the beer up to his lips and down his throat. “I’m fine. I guess it’s the season.” He waved his hand in the air. “All those lights and such. Mama used to love Christmas. Maybe she loved it enough for the both of us.” He sat on the bed and scrubbed his eyes.

A memory came of Johnny sitting on his lap before the fire in the Great Room while he read aloud from Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are”. He’d been far too young to comprehend the meaning of the words, or the pictures. Instead, Johnny had been mesmerized by the flicker of orange flames reflected in the glass of Murdoch’s watch; his head resting against Murdoch’s chest, rubbing his eyes every now and then to ward off sleep. _Contentment._ That’s what he remembered most from those days. Until she left.  

He shook his head, impatient with himself. It was lack of sleep making him so nostalgic; the tumult of the last few months, the weight of the day ahead. He blotted out the memory and focused.

“I know tomorrow will likely be a busy day for you, so I wanted to give you this before you left.”

Johnny looked sharply at him. “I don’t understand.” He folded his arms over his chest.

Murdoch brought out a thin box and handed it to his son. “Go on, open it. I’m not sure it’ll make you feel any better about the season, however.”

Johnny pulled out the red and green jeweled cross from the Christmas tree.

“It was your mother’s favorite ornament. She treasured it because it represented the season to her…and you.”

“Me?”

“Um-hm. Your mother had a difficult birth and for a while, it looked like I was going to lose the both of you. A year later, your aunt gave Maria the cross. A symbol of goodness and hope for the future, I guess. No matter what happened, she loved you, Johnny.”

“Aw, Murdoch. I know it. I just wish I could’ve given her more, you know? Especially towards the end. But mostly, I wish I could’ve worked through her lies quicker. Would’ve saved us a lot of time.”

He turned the cross over and fingered the bite marks. Grinning, he asked, “Did I do this?”

Murdoch nodded.

“Did she get mad?”

“Not that time. I think you ran off too fast.”

Johnny tapped the cross and laid it upright against his lamp. “Thanks for this, Murdoch.”

“De nada, mi hijo. I’m glad you’re home.”

They talked a while longer until the conversation turned into dueling yawns. He went to stand by the door.

“I saw your motorcycle in the garage. It’s looking good. Did you get it tuned up?”

“I was thinkin’ of driving south, but…” The words spilled out, slow at first then building speed as if he were driving the cycle.  

“But?”

“I think I’d rather stay here. No tellin’ what kind of weather I’d run into, right?” He heard the breath Johnny took. “Murdoch, I’m still workin’ on things.”

They let that sit for a minute.

“You… _we_ have all the time in the world, Johnny.”

A few months ago, the tension between them had been unbearable. Now, everything was different and Murdoch didn’t know exactly what had transpired to make it different. All he knew was that the room smelled of cedar, beer, and cowboy boots.

Murdoch wouldn’t have it any other way.

L-L-L

Murdoch found Scott in the Great Room, standing by the tree, nursing a glass of what could only be brandy. His first born had a penchant for the drink as far as he could tell. Tequila, not so much. Visions of him trying to coax a flamenco from eighty-seven year old Doña Marguerita made him laugh out loud. Much as it did her that evening.  

Scott turned his head at the noise.

It was when he turned that Murdoch saw the bruised and swollen knuckles of his son’s right hand.

He tipped his head. “Those hurt much?”

Scott flexed his hand and scrutinized the damage. “Not really. I only hope I can play the violin again.”

“Do you play?”

Scott grinned like a pirate. “Sorry. Old joke. As in ‘ _great, I never could before_ ’. I can mangle a tune on the piano if I have fortification, but it’s been years since the lessons.”

Murdoch sighed. “It was no joke what happened to Teresa today—and I have you and Johnny to thank for interceding.”

“Yes, well, it took us long enough to figure out what was going on. It could have been much worse. Tyrell—Eric, not Rita—yelled something about pressing charges for this,” he held up his bruised fist, “before they hauled him away.”

“No apologies necessary.”

“Oh, I’m not offering one, just thought you should know if the local constabulary knocks on the door.”

Murdoch walked behind his desk and sat. “Did that happen a lot in Boston? Local constabularies dropping by?”

Scott frowned. “A time or two.”

“I see. As far as I can tell you’re at a disadvantage, having both the Lancer and the Garrett tempers combined into one.”

Scott raised his glass in a mock toast. “I manage to scrape by.”

“Johnny said the police had to pull you off Tyrell.”

“Yes. That’s a fact.”

“Is there something else I should know?”

“Murdoch, I haven’t even got it figured out. Wasn’t it all in the Pinkerton reports?”

“About the mission in Kabul, yes. They were a little fuzzy on the details, but I gather something happened at an orphanage. That’s all I know.”

“Far be it for me to spill the beans, when the Army wants it kept secret. Frankly, some secrets should be kept, well, secret. Truthfully, I don’t want to re-hash that particular part of my life. Especially on Christmas.”

“All right, son.” The grandfather clock in the hallway struck time. Murdoch opened his desk drawer to pull out the gift. “It’s getting late, or early, however you want to look at it, and I know you have people to see, places to go. So I want to give you this.”

Scott placed his drink on the corner of the desk and gave a lopsided grin. “It’s wrapped in comics.”

Murdoch could feel a blush start from his neck up to his ears. “It was your mother’s tradition. We had nothing that first Christmas except each other and a newspaper. Our second Christmas was better but not by much—hence the traditional comic wrapping paper.”

His son fingered the tape on the bulky package. “I like it.”

It was Murdoch’s turn to smile, so he did. “Open it.”

Scott tore away the paper. “What’s this?” He held the stuffed sock monkey with the funny little hat and vest in his hands like it was made of delicate china.

“It was to be yours. You mother sewed it then decided to put that hat on him when she made a mistake. The hat didn’t look right just by itself, so she gave him a vest. Like one of those organ grinder monkeys. I’ll have you know those buttons came off one my good shirts.” He chuckled at the funny memory. “You know, your sense of humor and hers are quite the same.”

A little intake of breath was all Murdoch heard then a quiet, “You kept it?”

Murdoch came to his feet, hands fisted by his side, then slowly unclenching, collecting himself in spite of all the missed years, the missed opportunities. “For when you’d come back.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it happen sooner. Much sooner.”

Scott nodded—kept nodding—as he placed the toy on the desk and took up his drink. He turned to the tree, and walked in slow circles around it, not looking at Murdoch. Just the slow circles, the occasional sip of brandy, the silence between them fraught with the unspoken.

“I believe I will turn in. Like you said people and places.”

“Yes, of course,” Murdoch said, fighting for an even voice.

“Do you think,” Scott said after a long time, “Johnny and I could have the morning off? There’s a small matter we have to attend.” 

Murdoch did look then, and Scott had a wide smile on his face, a look of bemused capitulation on his face. “Small matter?” Murdoch was mystified, but it sounded like his son was staying.

The moonlight shone in through the window and he held onto the idea of that second Christmas picnic because it had started so much. Catherine was so sure, he had gotten cake and candles to celebrate while they waited for the blue line to show. And Murdoch didn’t think about having a son older than he’d been when he was shipped overseas, didn’t think about candles bright as stars or about Catherine in the hospital, and of never seeing Scott a sleepy bundle in her arms.

Didn’t think about it, at all.

L-L-L

Even when they weren’t technically there anymore, he still had them, carried them with him, always. Maybe fathers and sons were always to be tied.

It was later in the evening, after dinner on Christmas Eve, and they were all four sitting beside the fire, curtains drawn closed, keeping out not only the night but a few flurries as well. Teresa had called everyone’s attention to the fact it was snowing.

“I’ve seen snow before,” Scott had said. “Real snow. Boston, remember?”

“Yeah, but not in California. Look.” Teresa had tugged his arm until he got up.

Even Scott had to admit it was something special.

Candles were lit rather than the lamps, and they gave the room a timeless, gentle light.

Murdoch’s eyes fell on Teresa and his heart gave a lurch. Watched as she fixed an ornament just so then leaned back in her chair to assess. Lighting the letter on fire had been freeing to her in a way. Cleansing. But it had been too close. Much too close.

He watched Scott and Johnny quietly argue by the Christmas tree. Then Johnny got up and left the room only to return with an odd looking package.

“Comic wrapping paper?”

Scott smiled and nodded. “When in Rome and all that.”

“Is that what you two were doing all morning?”

“Partly. Johnny here happens to be an expert at wrapping, and something less of an expert at carpentry.

Johnny elbowed Scott in the ribs. “Look who’s talkin’.”

“Well, open it and we’ll see if you want us hammering on any more fences.”

“It kind of met an accident while we were in town. Maybe we should say that first,” Johnny said.

Murdoch took his time peeling off the tape and folding back the paper. It was a photograph mounted in a picture frame. The frame looked to be made of scrap plywood and Murdoch knew those few sticks he kept in the shop had come to good use. But it was the picture that caught his eye.

Teresa sat down on his chair arm. “That’s the place where we stopped that very first day. Lancer as far as the eye can see. Scott thought it would make an awesome photograph.” She frowned a little. “There was supposed to be a small plaque I had made, but…”

“But circumstances prevented us from picking it up,” Scott said. “Johnny had a spectacular walnut frame put around it.”

Johnny snorted. “But that kind of bit the dust, too.”

The picture showed Teresa, Scott and Johnny captured in the early light of a brilliant sunrise.

It didn’t matter about the frame or the plaque. It mattered that they were all there together. Murdoch looked up to each of them. Johnny, a little smile playing about his lips. Teresa, open as a daisy. Scott, wearing a grin that lit up his face.

Gifts, that's what they were.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
